I'm Moving

I'm moving this blog to WordPress:  http://findingmygrounduu.wordpress.com/  I hope you'll follow me there.

Zen and the Litter Box

This morning, I met peace over the litter box.  My younger son, a floor above me, was 15 minutes into a rant about damage to a Nerf sword, and I was working hard to keep my cool.  Not everyone may choose scooping cat poop during these events, but I've yet to find ways to consistently keep my cool during these loud, protracted tantrums, so I gave it a go.  It worked.

My younger's tantrum verge on the legendary.  They're long, loud, aggressive, and sudden.  Eight and a half years of these beauties should have inoculated me against their effects on my heart, but time hasn't helped.  (Okay, they were nonverbal for the first year, but at what age does protracted unexplained screaming morph from colic to tantrum?)  He's inconsolable, angry, and out of control during the events, and they generally just have to run out of fuel on their own.  On my best days, I can keep my cool for the duration, keeping my voice even and expressing what I imagine his feelings are (he doesn't use those confusing feeling words often) while he interrogates me relentlessly, looking for the answer he wants and erupting more when I don't give in.

Until today, ear plugs have been my best defense. I can hold my temper better when my ear drums aren't threatening to explode.  While I wish a hug and open ear helped him, these tactics only fan the flames.  Answering a few questions to assure his understanding then refusing to continue the conversation seems the best tact.  So I often move around the house, cooking, cleaning, and tending to simple tasks while I wait out the storm.

Today, I headed toward the litter box.  With six kittens in my charge, there is no shortage of poop to scoop. Once by the basement box, I search through the sand with my blue scoop.  His voice fades a bit with the distance, and I sift through the box for telltale clumps.  It's oddly soothing, and soon my mind is only on those stinky lumps of clay.  Too soon, the job ends.  After reluctantly setting down my scoop and tossing my findings, I return to the tantrum still in play.  It's easier now to weather the storm.  His raging continues for another 20 minutes or so,  but my storm is past, thanks to the litterbox.

The Middle of the Bed

After years of sleeping on the left side of the bed, last night I tried sleeping in the middle.  I'd like to say this move came from new-found comfort with my single status, but necessity forced my hand.  Quite possibly, my younger's favorite part of having only one parent in each residence is the space it opens up in the parent's bed.  I co-slept for years with my younger, at least for part of most nights.  He was an all-night nurser for more years than I care to tell, and sharing a mattress on the floor of his room for most of each night kept me vertical during the day. 

Until last week, I laid with him until he fell asleep.  Every night.  For eight and a half years. I'd tried to coax him toward independent sleep in the past, but illness, travel, and parental upheaval interruped our plans.  It simply wasn't important enough to me to seriously stress my rather sensitive and volitle younger son, and I believe in choosing my battles.  But this month, he was ready.  It's gone swimmingly.  I read to him as always, snuggle for 10 minutes, and leave.  We're both proud. 

So what's with last night's full bed?  He sometimes uses his blonde, eight-year-old wiles to win his way into my bed for stories and subsequent sleep.  I still leave until my bedtime, but he likes the idea of waking with me in the morning.  Fine by me, especially given nightly lows in single digits.  At least the bed is warmer.  Last night, however, my older needed a bit of mom, too.  Anxiety brought him in for conversation and distraction but overcrowding (here's where I end up in the middle) drove him back to his bed. 

After he left, I tried to stay in the middle, figuring it was time to claim the bed as mine, despite the small, warm addition to my right.  After seven years of two sleepers (and two years of just one) creating dents inthe pillow top mattress, no amount of rotating makes for a flat surface.  The middle is a hill between the valleys, and I prefer level ground when sleeping.  Back to the right side of the bed.

Spider bites to the feet sent my older scurrying back at some obscene hour, so I returned to the middle.  We're all pretty small people, but this load is just a bit much, even for my queen-sized bed.  The night was long.  Finally my younger awoke, earlier than I usually prefer, but at least we could all get out of bed.  Nighttime parenting continues as long as the kids are in the house, but I'm hoping to limit my number of nights in the middle of the bed.  Perhaps I'll celebrate that point with a new mattress.

(Moon image thanks to NASA public domain photos)

Out of My Mind

Emmy was hard to return.  Although she's only been with us two weeks, she really found her place in our home.  She fit in well:  talkative, heat-seeking, and assertive about her needs.  She and I just bonded.

So returning her to the Michigan Humane Society was tough today.  I've liked most of our foster cats, but a few are special, and letting go of those is a tougher.  As my younger and I walked down to the cat rooms,  a foster employee stage whispered, "If you want them, we have great fosters for you!"  Before she elaborated I knew she had kittens, but before I could ask, she continued, "Six babies, each under a pound and about five weeks old!" 

My younger squealed with the delight only six kittens, each able to fit your hand, can bring.  What can I say?  His joy was infectious, as was the staff's pleasure that we'd care for such a brood until they recovered from their kitten cold and gained enough weight to be adoptable.  Of course they came home with us. 

On the way home, I called my older to share the news.  His jumps (audible through the phone) and yells said it all.  "You said never more than four at a time again, Mom!  And now we have SIX!!" 

He's right.  After a particularly worm-infested (read: poopy in the wrong places) set of five, I swore to keep the kitten-count under that level.  But these babies needed us.  And the five hadn't been that difficult, had they?  I'm a bit of a sucker for cats in need but much more of one for the joy of my sons, especially in dreary January.  So here they are.  Yoda, Obi, Chewie,Sam, Rosalind, and Irene.  Stuffy, sneezy, and adorable.  And I'm smiling, but perhaps I'm just out of my mind. 

Fun: Lost and Found

It seems the fun factor in my older's life is not reaching satisfactory levels.  Lately, my too-soon-to-be teenager announced that he's not having enough fun.  His homeschooling work isn't fun, so it's just impossible to do.  Not too hard (he'd let me know), not too easy (he'd also let me know), but just not fun.  In fact, his whole life is less fun than it was three years ago.

It's a sad day when you break it to your child that no promise of never-ending fun came with the birth certificate.  My reaction to his distress was to let him in on that fact:  no promises of a fun life come with existance.  Just for the record, those were hardly words of comfort to hom.  He proceeded to wail about life being endless work, only for the gain of money, and that life was, therefore, pointless.  Ouch.

This time, I tried recalling the hunter/gatherer lifestyle and my opinion at surely that wasn't fun 24/7.  No dice.  His life is not fun enough, and, as an adult, he'll work for money and fun will have no part.  Could happen, I admit, but I've often discussed creating a career around what you love.  I reminded him that my work as a physician assistant is, while not always fun, deeply satisfying to me.  Yeah, there are difficult patients and too much documenting.  But supporting people through illness and teaching them how to maintain their health brings me meaning.  Not fun, but something better. I encouraged him to search for what gave him satisfaction and a sense of meaning (beyond playing computer games and provoking his brother).  No response.

His pain is real, and I don't mean to mock my older at all, but please permit me a deep parental sigh and a bit of an eye-roll (out of his sight, of course).  I admit I didn't manage to bite my tongue before regaling him with what's not fun for me:  toilet cleaning, meal preparation, vacuum belt replacing -- I'd better stop before I'm in tears.  It pains me to hear his genuine angst at the reality of life.  Plenty of life isn't fun, and that message kicks everyone in the pants at some point.  Life is often challenging, frustrating, disappointing, and even downright sad, but in and from those moments can come satisfaction, meaning, and growth.  And knowing you've grown and made one life a better place for someone?  That's what I call fun.

Reading Room

That's it. I am not going to the bookstore.  Never mind that I have a quiet (read "kid-free") afternoon and evening.  Ignore the educator discount sale, granting K-12 educators 25% off all books.  Resist the lure of all those ideas and information bound up and collected in a place with coffee. I'm staying put.

I'm an absolute book junkie.  New, used, borrowed, I love them all. Paperback Swap, my local libraries, any bookstore.   But my shelves are full -- double-stacked in places, and I need nothing.  I have dozens of books still unread, books I really want to read.  My children's shelves aren't lacking either, so I can't use their need to read as an excuse just to be in a place with all those books.

Several of my most recent acquisitions are books about writing.  Though stacked neatly next to my favorite reading chair, they've had no effect on my writing. I'm not blogging more often. I have yet to compose a query for articles that remain half-baked in my brain.  I haven't even finished my holiday thank-you notes.  There the books remain, most bindings uncreased and pages largely unread.  Hmm.

The stack of guides for spiritual seekers of all kinds take similar rest on my nightstand.  Several sport bookmarks a quarter to halfway in.  Despite the number that I've begun (and, to my credit, the number I've finished), I've yet to commit to regular spiritual practice.  My meditation cushion is downright lonely.  Huh.

I've sought solutions in the written word for as long as I can remember.  Curious about a subject?  Bring home that section from the library.  Considering a new course of study?  Collect texts and tomes.  Concerned about self/children/marriage/the world?  Read more books. 

I'm not advocating an end to reading, and I'm not vowing to stop purchasing, borrowing, and swapping books, but I'm raising my own awareness of the obvious fact that reading alone isn't equivalent to taking action.  It fails to fix problems and develop new habits.  It can encourage and inspire, inform and distress, entertain and perplex, but it doesn't write the essay, conquor the clutter, or care for the children. 

So I'm staying home.  I'm sure I'll read from my burgeoning shelves tonight, but first, I'll finish that thank-you note, and that's a start.

Now in the New Year

I don't make New Year's resolutions.  Not formal ones, anyway, either aloud or written.  My mind, however, reels from the possibilities for personal growth and betterment of the world, but I astutely avoid committing change to print.  When I was Catholic, I had some success with Lent as a time for change and successfully started flossing regularly after applying myself during this season of repentance and abstinence.  One change to make, six weeks to establish a habit.  It worked for me.

Being a bit of a curmudgeon regarding detail and personal perfection, listing my promises for the new year (a point which seems rather arbitrary to me, but that's another post), seemed a sure ticket to failure.  And I really despise personal failure.  When the resolutions remain nebulous in my head, failure seems further away.  If I never really committed to X, Y, and Z, can I really fail to do them?

Yes.  Nine days into a new year, I have yet to start writing seriously and regularly,  read the back issues of American Family Practice journal (and submit the quizzes for continuing medical education credits), actually practice a spiritual practice daily, or clean my cupboards and pantry.  I've settled issues with children in less than spirit-respecting ways, nibbled and noshed when not hungry, and, despite Lenten promises a decade old, failed to floss regularly.  And I feel the failures deeply.

Fortunately, I'm making significant progress staying in the moment.  This moment, as my fingers type these words, is the only moment I have.  When I stew over my many perceived failures or anticipate tomorrow being a more productive/loving/dental hygiene minded day, I miss now.  Now is when I have some quiet time to write.  Now is when I can respond to the seemingly endless interruptions from kids in a way that respects their essence while still honoring mine.  Now I can take a breath, then another, then another, feeling my breath rise and fall.  In this moment, for this moment, I can be in the Now, fully experiencing life as I live it. No revisions of the past (that can't be made in reality) and now promises for tomorrow (what can we truly promise about the future?). 

Happy Now.

Mom Interrupted

For this post, I'm logging the kids' interruptions (1 - Older implied younger was a geek. He is. They both are, but younger doesn't want to be called that) in real time  (2 -Younger sticks duct tape in older's hair. At older's request.) during a single blogging session.  Good luck reading this (3-Younger brings kitten to me, asking a question the kitten has.).

Sometimes my most burning question (4-Younger complains about his brother's answer to a simple question he asked.) is whether I'll ever be able to carry a thought longer than 20 seconds long while the boys are in the house (5-"Mom, did you notice the present under the tree?" asks older), not including any time they spend playing computer games or sleeping.  I worry if my older's ADD is contagious, and I wonder if I've caught it. 

I'd like to say I'm reassured by my longer periods of concentration when they're not here, that I notice an ability to sit for hours, writing, reading, or just thinking.  I'd be lying, however.  (6- "He won't accept a free wedgie, Mom!  It's only five dollars!" my younger illogically notifies me.)  Even when alone, I have trouble settling into the quiet needed to allow myself submersion into a thoughtful activity.  I may write a paragraph or two only to urgently need to find a snack, warm my coffee, check on the kittens, or move the laundry.  (7- Some nonsensical notification of the pain of "Korean burns" from my younger.  I have no idea.) (8-Ditto number seven, but now "Canadian burns".)  I'm seriously concerned that I'll never focus again.

My meditation attempts are at least as scattered as my other stabs at prolonged attention (read: longer than 43 seconds).  I try but generally find my mind wandering off, a few breaths into the process.  Gently, I bring it back, but the wanderings far outnumber the breaths spent in quietude.  It's worse than monkey mind.  It's two-kids-at-home mind.  Yikes.  (9- More weird comments from younger -- seems I'm a "momafant."  I don't know, and I'm not asking.) (10- Broken icemaker triggered by older -- stern reminder from mom to leave it alone.)  Now where was I? 

Tree Tales

The tree's up.  It's bare, but it's standing in it's assigned place at the front window.  And this year, the top doesn't fold over at the ceiling, so I guess I've learned how to judge heights under eight feet.  That's progress.


The boys and I trekked to our local tree lot ("ours" since we started going there in 2008) and, rather quickly for us, picked a suitable specimen.  It's relatively straight, after quite a bit of adjusting, and needles seem to be holding on, at least for now.  It's our second real tree after 14 years of the fake variety, and I relish the smell of life in the midst of this dark and rather dormant time of year. 

I grew up with the genuine article, hunted down in a local tree lot, usually on the coldest day of December. A certain amount of dithering about shape and size occurred of course, as we assured ourselves the tree had enough of a good side to be presentable.  The best tree had pine cones, which opened with a crackle in the heat of our living room. 

Once I moved from my family of origin to my family of marriage, the tree changed to the artificial variety.  Rather than hunted and hauled, it was unfolded and fluffed.  While I understood the fire concerns regarding a real tree, I missed the, well, realness of the genuine article. 

Last year, with my marriage dissolving and change swirling around, I made a change of my own.  After some online research on choosing a tree and features of different varieties, I was ready to shop.  Boys in tow, I drove three miles down the road and dug into the chore at hand.  Our final pick, a Douglas fir, turned out to be a bit larger in the house than it appeared on the lot.  How my older son (all of 60 lbs of him) and I wrestled that monstrosity into our narrow entryway and then into the tree stand, I really don't know.  As the top six inches bent onto the ceiling, I cringed, but just a bit.  My pride in our efforts and delight in our find far trumped my disappointment in my misjudgement of height. 

This year, there was no going back to the unfolding and fluffing.  We trooped back to our tree lot, dithered and dickered as long as the cold wind allowed, and brought home another Douglas fir.  Set up was faster, thanks to last year's experience, but the joy was not diminished for the familiarity of the task.  Our real tree is a new tradition for our newly changed family.  And that's progress.

Thanksgivings

Two hours left of Thanksgiving Day, my first one in forty trips around the sun that I've spent without family.  The first one in 13 without my children.  Far from feeling broken and lost, I feel strong.  Strong in mind, body, and spirit.

Strong mind.  I've learned so much this year.  Some comes straight from homeschooling my sons:  Latin declensions, geometry theorems, cellular respiration equations, Punic War details, and so much more.  Other learning is more self-directed.  I've stretched it with Scrabble games and busied it with Buddhism readings. I'm thankful for the time and ability to think, read, and write.  My mind is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong body.  Post-push-up pain aside, I've gained considerable physical strength thanks to martial arts training.  I'm far more coordinated than any previous point in my life, with better balance to boot.  Excellent instruction from my instructor in Tang Soo Do, my own hard work, and encouragement from friends at the dojang all contributed.  My body is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong spirit.  Emotional strain and pain forced me to look inward more intently than ever.  I sought and summoned inner resources previously unrecognized, and I found a connection to the universe that brings me a sense of wholeness.  I continue on a spiritual journey, but I've made many steps this year.  Personal struggles, support from family and friends, and dedication to truth seeking paved many stones on this path.  My spirit is stronger, and for this I give thanks.   

To all of you who have supported me during this time, thanks for sharing your strengths so mine may grow. 

Namaste. (which, for this writing, means may the strength in me recognize the strength in you, and when we recognize the strength in each other, we are one)

Sore, Striped, and Strong

A recent Sunday morning found me achy from hips to head and a bit bruised in between.  Two hours of Tang Soo Do testing left me rather battered and quite aware that fifty push-ups and lots of bodily contact including takedowns and a few kicks to the abdomen from some powerful black belts took their toll on my 40-year-old body.  Just rolling out of bed challenged me, and coughing or laughing was amazingly painful. Bring on the heating pad and the ibuprofen (holistic types, advice welcome).

A week later, my pain only a memory, I'm back in the dojang, sitting on the floor for an hour of promotions. I'm finding myself less than thrilled at the prospect of 30 minutes of names being called followed by applause, and I'm feeling a bit guilty about my attitude.  The newest members are up front, all in white aside from a few with a splash of yellow or orange across an otherwise white belt.  I flash back to my first few months of Tang Soo Do:  every punch, kick, and turn took all my concentration and effort.  Just landing on the correct foot seemed to take divine intervention.  With my coordination, it probably did.

Receiving a yellow belt, that first bit of color to my conspicuously white uniform, was a major triumph. I was on my way, and, more importantly at the time, I wasn't at the very beginning anymore.  I was moving ahead.  Fast forward to orange, green, red, and all the stripes in between to this promotion.  Red with a stripe.  No longer in the first few groups called to promote, I'm now in the last row to be called forward.  As my instructor places the coveted stripe on my belt, the first of four before black belt,  I warm to the moment at hand and beam with pride.

Quite honestly, the test a few weeks back gave me pause.  I was rather discouraged with my conditioning (those push-ups!) and rather concerned about the intensity of the testing itself, especially as I continue to progress.  Two-on-one sparring lies ahead:  two black belts on one testing red belt, with fresh pairs of black belts swapping in every few minutes.  Yikes.  But two years ago, so much about red imtimidated me.  How would I ever be able to perform all those complicated-looking forms, one right after another, with my coordination?  How could I learn to throw people much larger than me, dodge punches and kicks while dishing out my own?  How could I learn it all? 

Somehow, I did manage.  Not somehow.  Classes twice a week, some practice at home, an amazingly patient instructor, and two in-home helpers with better memory than I:  those played more than a small role.  I'm stronger and more coordinated than ever before.  My body responds with instinct and confidence -- a first for me. My martial arts work and the focus required have certainly aided my ability to cope with the life changes I've confronted these past two years.  Making new friends on the same path and having the chance to work long-term on a goal with my kids are bonuses.  The strength, focus, and confidence I've gained?  They're worth the days of aches -- completely.

It Takes a Year or Two

I'm not generally prone to holiday blues, but this year holds some special challenges.  I've read that it takes a full year or two of holidays after a divorce or death to form new rituals and settle into new patterns that truly feel comfortable.  While I've spent a Thanksgiving with my boys and without my spouse, this will be my first without either.  I've planned well, albeit late, and will be cooking and thanking the universe with dear friends.  I'm covered.

Still.  A lump come to my throat when the divisions of the next six weeks come to mind.  I don't care for change, and divorce is change in spades.  As a talisman against grief, I remind myself and recite the boys' holiday plans to others who ask .  Thanksgiving with their Dad (after all, I add, I had them last year), Christmas Eve with his family, Christmas Day at home.  My younger asks for the litany every few days while my older continually reminds me of the importance of waking at home on Christmas Day.  The ritual holds back my tears.

Sort of.  They threaten to bubble forth at inconvenient times.  At church. When discussing the timing of buying a tree.  In Trader Joes.  When listening to Christmas music (yeah, the boys pulled it out already). In the quiet of the night, when sleep eludes me. You get the idea.  My mind threatens to twirl out of control, spiralling into worries about loneliness I might experience without the boys and despair about my failed marriage. If I let myself go long enough, I can return to the self-blame about my marriage's failure.

Breathe.  My recourse is simple but not easy.  Reeling myself out of the abyss of loneliness, self flagellation and sadness takes my breath.  Okay, it takes many of them.  But eventually, staying with my breath, letting my feelings just be without judging or directing them, I can come back to the present. I can return to the song at church, the decorating discussion, the frozen green beans, Oh Holy Night, and restorative sleep.  Acknowledged, those painful feeling pass when ready, leaving me with peace. 

Usually.  As they say, it takes a year or two.  And that's a lot of breaths.

Dragons are About

I have dragons on the brain. Specifically, I'm imagining a scarlet-backed, small-winged beast about 4 feet tall. He's a bit grumpy at times, but we've been living together for awhile now, and I'm gradually learning the art of sharing my life with him.

A recent sermon by Alex Riegel, Feeding the Purple Dragon, crystallized my process of coming to terms with my separation from my husband of 15 years and upcoming divorce. To briefly summarize the 30 minute sermon, dragons are those people, events, and situations we face that, if ignored, grow larger and more troublesome. We often do just that, pushing the issue away from our minds in an attempt to avoid pain and conflict within our selves or with the dragon itself. Or we try to slay the dragon, but this is a rather messy and ineffective way to go through life. The radical alternative? Learn to accept the presence of the dragon: learn its habits, its feeding needs, and live accordingly.

The divorce process itself is one of my dragons. He's not my ex-husband-to-be. He's divorce and all it's layered meanings to me. My first head-on encounter occurred when the papers arrived. Sword in hand, I railed against him, but he joined my household anyway. Dealing with the legal end of this process, face-to-face or from my home, can leave me in a cold sweat. Impatient claw clicks grow louder as the Judgement of Divorce statement sent from my lawyer sits in my inbox, needing comments and revisions from me. Once I look at him head on, read the papers, fill in the necessary blanks, and send them off, he retreats, returning to his spot in the house.

At points, my sadness about this divorce overwhelms me, tears flow and sobbing leaves me exhausted. Following my honest acceptance of my feelings about this life change, he actually shrinks a bit. When fear of the future floods my system, he feeds heartily, growing more threatening as my anxiety deepens. Only when I can face his gaping maw, brimming forth with smoke and oppressive heat, does he back away, having seen the strength I possess. He requires honest acknowledgement and forward motion to maintain an even temperment.

My dragon's not leaving. Divorce is forever with me and my children. Living with it peacefully, repecting it's reality and responding honestly without excessive anxiety is the choice I've made. I've layed down my sword and face my newest resident accordingly.

Flu Blues

Two kids, nine consecutive days of fevers and coughs, and one mom losing her mind.  It's the flu.  The real McCoy, no "severe cold" or other such beast.  It's pretty nasty, too. The fevers are high and the chills are bone shaking.  Their coughs are gut-wrenching.  They've had achy bodies and touchy tummies.  I really feel bad for them.  And I feel bad for me.


Don't get me wrong. My empathy for the boys runs deep.  But right now, I'm having a pity party for me. I've had too little adult contact, even less sleep, and way too much whining exposure to be healthy for anyone. Almost every night for over a week, I've shared a bed with a sweaty child, moaning, coughing, and waking early as his body battled the viral villain.  I'm tired and rather cranky.


These are the times that try this mom's soul.  The internal push-pull between the mom-me and that me-me part.  As an attachment parenting type with five cumulative years breastfeeding two kids who has been homeschooling these offspring for the last five years, I'm wholly committed to mothering and family.  I chose to have these amazing creatures, and I believe in deep, impassioned, committed motherhood.  Some would say I drank the Kool Aid, giving up my own identity to parent my kids, but I'd wholly disagree.  It's a new dimension to me, and I've grown in ways I don't believe I would have without it.  It's also exhausted me, frustrated me, and sucked me dry at times.  Like now.

I need some regular time to just meet my own needs, not in a way that neglects the real needs of children but that respects that my own mental and physical health is essential to the well being of this family.  If I swallow the message that all should be about my children, 24/7, I miss some essentials to being a healthy woman.  This often is referred to as putting on one's own oxygen mask first, but that creates a sense of "emergency only" self care and consideration.  Ask any person who relies on the ER for all her medical care and you'll quickly realize most emergencies wouldn't exist if it weren't for neglect of routine care.  Regular nurturing of me keeps the oxygen mask need to a minimum.

So I'm feeling sorry for me.  With barely a breath without interruption for the past week and a half, I've missed that time to attend to me-me, and that portion of me screams for attention when neglected for long. It's all been oxygen masks for awhile, and I'm in need of some routine care, just enough to restore and strengthen this weary woman.  It's coming.

Tween? Not Buying That!

I despise the term "tween." Did we honestly need another designation for a period of childhood? Back when I was a kid (my boys know to tune out NOW), at 12 years, one was a preteen. Nothing more, nothing less. "Tween," it seems, refers to kids from 8 to 12, or nine to 14, or the 10 to 14 set, depending on the user. Eight? Really?!? My eight-year-old is a kid. Early elementary, if we must use school labels. He's no where near teen, and, therefore, certainly not a "tween".


My 12-year-old son is no "tween" either. Sure, he's on the cusp of adolesence, at least by the numbers. Aside from his odor, he's decidely prepubecent physically. He still loves stuffed animals, Pokemon, and building forts with couch cushions. He's also a Rachmaninov fan, a TIME magazine reader, and Google Earth devotee. One moment, he's logically discussing mathematics and then next he's making annoying random sounds. He's transitioning, gradually, in fits and stops, from childhood to adulthood. It's a long process, one, according to brain maturation studies, that continues until at least age 25. By that point you've theoretically been "adult" for 7 years. Or perhaps then one would be a twadult? Hmmm.

The term is widely used by the marketing folks who discovered a niche for a wide variety of products. This is my main objection. The tween term seems to have it's main use in marketing. I'm strongly against marketing to children, who, after all, still are developing their critical thinking skills and have less ability to see the line of garbage they're fed by those who see them with dollar signs only. Am I angry? You bet.

According to Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring, a tween is a hobbit between the ages of 20 and 32. Better origin, but still not particularly useful when describing my boys. I'll stick to kids, thanks, and you can hold the advertising.

What We Learned Today

Here's a sampling of what the boys and I learned today.  Feel free to guess who learned what.

Complement means "that which completes something".  Compliment is something nice we say to another.
The subject complement takes a noun, adjective, or subjective pronoun.
In Spanish, there are eight articles, as opposed to the three in English.
Complementary angles are two angles which add up to 90 degrees.
Supplementary angles are two angles that add up to 180 degrees.
Tofind the area of a rectangle, multiply the length time the width.
To find the perimeter of a polygon, add up all the sides.
Aedifico (Latin) means "to build".
In "Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes," Sadako contracts leukemia after exposure to radiation from an atomic bomb.
Plant cells have chloroplasts.  Animal cells don't.
How to play measure 73 through 76 in "Hopak" by Modest Mussorgsky on the piano.
It's hard to read the Encylopedia Britannica.
The pretzel with the bong (bo staff in Korean martial arts) is tricky and takes flexibility. 
How to spell "blew".
How to beat mom at "Settlers of Catan."
Trimming rear claws on kittens is harder than cutting front claws.
The letters "s" and "b" in cursive aren't really that hard.
Acorn squash makes great yeasted bread.
Kittens can  be a bit gassy.
Yellow Tail Shiraz is still okay after a week in the fridge.
Encouraging a friend is uplifting.
Refusing to unlock the house until the garbage is taken out is an effective method of delegating chores.
We can get ready for Tang Soo Do in 5 minutes.

We're really all learning all the time.  Nice to know, huh?

Universe in a Shoebox (Part II)

In the end of “Life as a Strategy for Life,” we were asked to look back on life as an experience and consider how we want to be eulogized. While I haven’t thought of it those terms, I have thought about my goals of living, and they step from my sense of connection to humanity as I discussed in Part I.

I want to have loved deeply, not just when I feel like it, not just when the other pleases me, not even only when I truly know the other person. I want to feel the compassion that goes alongside love for those with whom I share the planet. After all, we have all either been mother, we’ve all loved and lost, we’ve all laughed with delight and wept in sorrow. We all experience what it is to be human, what it means to be alive. Loving others, feeling compassion, deepens our connections to humanity, and, I believe, brings peace to ourselves and others.

This is a goal, a strategy to life. Working for that goal is work, and I miss the mark every day. As a bit of a perfectionist, examining my life for my shortcomings is second nature (and loving myself can be quite difficult, although as the cliché goes, it’s the place to start). As human, I constantly fall short. As human, I continue to strive for growth and that currently popular business term, “continuous improvement.”


Included in the sermon is this poem:
Adrienne Rich: Transcendental Etude
No one ever told us we had to study our lives,
make of our lives a study, as if learning natural history
or music, that we should begin
with the simple exercises first
and slowly go on trying
the hard ones, practicing till strength
and accuracy became one with the daring
to leap into transcendence, take the chance
of breaking down the wild arpeggio
or faulting the full sentence of the fugue.
—And in fact we can't live like that: we take on
everything at once before we've even begun
to read or mark time, we're forced to begin
in the midst of the hard movement,
the one already sounding as we are born.


— Adrienne Rich, 1984.


So I study my life, make gradual if stuttering progress, loving the life this earth contains.

Universe in a Shoebox (Part I)

A recent sermon by Rev. Alex Riegel left me thinking back. At the start of the sermon, Alex asks the congregation to remember moments of our youth when we felt in sync with life and taken with the mystery and wonder: to recall our natural philosophical disposition. A few points came forward in my mind. First, I remember wondering often about my uniqueness in the universe. After I understood just how many people inhabited this planet but before I knew anything about genetics, I mulled over what the chance was that I was the only one with my name, at my age, with my physical appearance, likes, and dislikes. Was there another me? What would the chances be that mundane me could really and truly be unique? I don’t recall judging whether having a duplicate would be a plus or a minus, only the recurring thought.


My second preoccupation as I’d lay in bed waiting for sleep was the uniqueness of the universe. Could the universe I knew be simply in a shoe box in the corner of someone’s closet, and could that closet-containing universe be in another box? Could the pattern, perhaps, never end in either direction, universes upon universes contained and containing this one, like an infinite set of nesting dolls? These were my early philosophical meanderings of the mind when young.

Honestly, they’re not too different than my meanderings now. I return to my shoebox theory of the universe when the thought of a single universe with nothingness beyond me seems either to simple or too distressing. It doesn’t keep me up nights anymore – that honor is reserved for so many distracting and usually uncontrollable minutiae in my life. And while I no longer wonder if my double resides in some small town in Iowa, I instead see the commonalities I have with the rest of humanity. I am a mother, thus share “mother” to greater or lesser extents with all mothers that are, that have ever been, or that ever will be. I have loved and lost, and share that experience with most of the world as well. I have known joy and sorrow and recognize these emotions as far from unique. They are, in fact, part of the human condition. These shared experiences ground me and connect me to the humanity.

It's the Yarn Talking

I swear I just went to look. Well, perhaps to touch and fantasize a bit, too. It's been about six months since my last trip, and the holiday season is coming, eventually. So I really need to go. In fact, it's more an obligation than... Oh, who am I kidding?

I love yarn shops, but fibers have a way of seducing me to bring them home. To avoid temptation, I only occasionally treat myself to an hour or two wrapped in the sensory indulgence of my favorite local knit shop, Neighborhood Knits. I haven't been there since it changed hands earlier this year, and I'm delighted to see the store maintain its cozy look and intimate feel. New yarns grace the shelves, layed out in a way that I find intuitive (grouped by fiber and weight). Sandy, the new owner, is welcoming and helpful without being at all invasive. For me, yarn shopping is personal. I need some time to see and touch before I can ponder the options aloud.

I came in to look at yarn choices for prairie boots, a pattern I've mulled over for a few months. As the weather cools and the idea of boot-like slippers doesn't make me sweat profusely, I'm ready to consider yarn for the project. After a cruise around the store, I not only find the yarn (Lamb's Pride Bulky, by Brown Sheep) but a pair of the boots knit up in a tweedy brown, my first choice of colors for the project. Before I commit to a color, I take a gamble at finding a pattern I'd considered last visit. It's still there, but picking four colors for it proves a bit more challenging. I tend towards shades of the same color, barely a step beyond my usual monochromatic or monochromatic-with-a-stripe-of-something-else choices.

Enter Sandy. She starts pulling skeins out of the artfully sorted bins, lining them up on the floor, narrating her thought process. At first, I'm only an observer, still overwhelmed by the options in color and texture even within the worsted wool section. Tentatively, I pull one of her selections out and add my own. Hmm. That's not too bad. She continues to demonstrate combinations, and soon, a dozen or more skeins are on the floor and couch, we've arranged in sets designed to complement each other.

Eventually, with much encouragement, I find a combination I like and make my purchase. I thank Sandy both for her help and patience with my indecision and head home new pattern and yarn in tow. I'm happy with my choice and with the comfort of a long project ahead of me and delighted a favorite local business is in such caring and competent hand. Oh, and the boots? I'll save that purchase for my next visit.

Garden On

I'm really ready to be done with the garden and yard. Not ready for the snow to fly, not even ready to rake leaves, but I'm yearning to break up with my reel lawn mower, pruners, and weed picker. Well, at least we need some time off from each other.

I know come February (okay, January)I'll be pining for those implements while I plan the vegetable garden whose bed will be buried under snow, but right now I'm just done. I'm sick of mowing grass that shouldn't be growing so much in September, tired of pulling the same weeds again, and saddened by pruning spent blossoms with no new blooms in the making for months.

Aside from a few beets lining the front of the garden and some volunteer cherry tomatoes that seem ripen way too slowly, there's little left but the herbs for food. The only flowers remaining are the autumn joy sedum. They're a personal favorite, with lovely succulent leaves in spring and summer and pink flowers deepening to russet as summer turns to fall. Along with the petal-free remains of the purple cone flowers and black-eyed susans, they add much-needed winter interest and landing pads for smaller birds. They also will give me hope when winter days drag on - spring will return.

My negative yard maintenance attitude abates a bit once I don my garden gloves and hit the dirt, pulling weeds, beating back the buttercups and bee balm, and removing dead day lillies. Cleaning the vegetable garden remains reminds me of the pesto I plan to make and freeze and the potatoes out of sight but still under the soil. Along with those beets and a few more carrots in my younger's garden, there's still some harvest remaining. After an hour of sweat-producing labor, my attitude about the yard is markedly brighter and my mood is lighter. Guess I'll keep the mower and garden on.